


Wrong But Largely Harmless Choices

by Sand3



Category: Dark Wolverine (Comics), Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alcohol, Course Language, M/M, References to Canon violence, Suggestive Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14770035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand3/pseuds/Sand3
Summary: “God, you are a roller coaster,” Drake complained, bitter annoyance sharpening his tone.“You mean you want to ride me?”“I want to haveany cluewhat is happening right now,” Drake sighed, radiating frustration.“Sunset's over, so I suppose we're waiting for the stars to come out,” Daken replied with a lopsided shrug.“We're in the middle of New York City.”“Then I imagine we'll be waiting a very long time.”





	Wrong But Largely Harmless Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> References to canon violence  
> Suggestive dialogue  
> Course language  
> Alcohol  
> Gratuitous punctuation

Daken heard someone knocking on the door of the little, nondescript dorm room they'd lent him for the night. For an unspecified length of time. For the fact that they weren't sure what to do with him. He ignored it. There was a voice, too far away and muffled through the door; Daken might have been able to put a name to it if he'd bothered to pay attention. Or care. He sipped his twenty-five year single malt, gazing out at the treeline, then grimaced in irritation as he heard the door to his room open. Somebody had a master key and no manners.

“Daken?” It was Drake's voice. “... Shit... Shit... When did he-- Shit...”

Daken rolled his eyes. “ _What?_ ” he called loudly.

There was a moment of quiet and then steps, the soft crackling of ice spreading over brick and finally Drake's head and shoulders popped up over the edge of the roof. His translucent body glowed amber as the fading dusk fought hard against twilight's approach. Fractal crazing inside of him glittered like crumpled cellophane. “What are you doing up there?” he asked.

Daken raised an eyebrow at him and took a sip of whiskey, savoring it for a moment before answering a question with a question. “What, afraid I'll hurt myself?”

Drake rose smoothly upwards and stepped from an improvised pilaster onto the roof, walking up the slope toward where the grade flattened out and Daken was perched. Every bit as uninvited as he had been when entering the room below. He settled down on Daken's left. Half a meter between them. Close enough he'd be taking a risk by defrosting himself. But he did it anyway. His eyes gazed out at nothing as he bit his lip for a moment, brow pinched, awkward. His tongue came out minutely, wetting his lip as he took a breath through his nose, bracing himself to speak. “So... things got out of hand, obviously,” he said.

Daken scoffed softly and rolled his eyes. “Han shot first.”

Drake frowned in confusion and looked up at him. “What?”

“The _hero_ fired the first shot. Maybe he had every reason to believe it was the pragmatic choice, but it doesn't change the fact that he was the one who fired it. _Deal_ with it,” Daken elaborated.

Drake stared at him silently for a few seconds. “... You kidnapped a kid,” he finally, weakly, retorted.

“A child left your school of his own free will. It took three days for anyone to notice. Which lends confirmation to his statements that nobody there wanted or cared about him,” Daken corrected, and as Drake took a breath to argue, he shot out his hand quickly, pressing two fingers to Drake's lips, which were cold. Daken could see frost curls had crept over the skin of his face, starting to change on reflex when he saw Daken coming. But he settled, and his lips warmed under Daken's fingers. “A child whom _you. personally._ punched in the head so hard he lost consciousness,” Daken added, staring him right in the eyes as they widened slightly and took on a guilty cast. “Zach said you never apologized for it. Is that so?”

Drake's eyes drifted away, averted, uncomfortable, as Daken withdrew his hand. He pursed his lips for half a second before drawing a breath. “I...”

“You can't remember, can you?” Daken asked, studying him. “Because you never really bothered to care.”

Drake's eyes flicked back up to his. The guilt was there again, tinged with helplessness. “... I'm not... His powers were out of control. A lot of lives were in danger, including his. We needed to get distance...” he said weakly.

Daken took a sip of his whiskey, not breaking eye contact. “And of course, violence was the logical solution. It's what you were taught, after all,” he murmured.

Offense flickered over Drake's features, cutting through the guilt and sweeping it aside. “ _You're_ one to talk about violence,” he snapped.

“Yes, but I'm just a 'villain'. You're supposed to be the ' _hero_ ',” Daken pointed out. “Unless there really is no difference after all. Just who has the byline.” Daken finally broke eye-contact to turn his gaze back toward the park, taking another sip of whiskey. “... I punched a child once. Well, three times, but all the same occasion,” he mused. “I faced capitol-punishment for it, so unless you want to tread the precarious line of double-jeopardy, then I would think that matter should be considered closed... I was given quite the baptism to wash away that sin.”

Drake was quiet for a few beats. “... I don't know what that means. He never really told us what happened.”

“Maybe because it was none of your business,” Daken gave a small shrug. “Or maybe, because he never liked talking about me. Did he.”

Drake shifted slightly, radiating discomfort. “I think he was ashamed.”

“Of course he was.”

“Of himself.”

Daken chuckled deep in his throat and smirked. “But that's why it's funny, Snowflake. What do you think he saw, when he looked at me?” he turned his head, pinning Drake with his eyes again. “Nothing but a reflection. Just his own reflection. In a muddy. little. puddle.”

Drake couldn't hold his gaze and looked down. “... You're right. I shot first,” he said softly. Changing the subject by back-tracking onto slightly more solid ground. Or at least more familiar thin ice. “I'm sorry.”

Daken was silent for a while, watching him. He took a sip of whiskey. “Am I supposed to absolve you now? Am I supposed to say 'it's all right?'” he asked softly. “It's not all right.”

Drake glanced back up with his eyes, even as his head kept its downward tilt. Pretty thing. He chewed on his lip. “What exactly do you want me to say here?” he asked.

Daken reached out, quickly again but this time Drake's skin was still a warm thirty-six when Daken caught his jaw and gripped it hard, pulling him slightly closer but also leaning in himself to bridge the gap, until their eyes were too close to look at anything else. “That you _knew_ I can feel pain,” Daken hissed. “That you _knew_ you were torturing me.”

“I...” Drake's eyes widened again, guilt creeping back into them, stronger than before.

“Here's something you might _not_ have known,” Daken whispered, glaring into his eyes, darkened from doe to coal in the descending twilight. “My healing factor prevents me from going into shock. It prevents me from going numb. I. feel. everything. I don't imagine you would have any concept of how much frostbite can hurt... The agony as my healing factor tears apart _systemic_ necrotic flesh to keep me alive...” He tightened his grip on Drake's jaw, determined to leave a bruise. “You froze my flesh but left my blood flowing. That's some fine, precision work. Very impressive. Was that your idea of mercy? Or cowardice. You were afraid to stop my heart. Guess what else you didn't stop. My _brain_. You kept me _conscious_ for that.”

“I'm sorry,” Drake whispered. He was blinking quickly, there was moisture on his eyelashes. Intense guilt. Self-horror.

“Are you? Are you sure it's not another joke?” Daken snarled at him, narrowing his eyes. “Like when you pinned me to the wall, like some entomology specimen, and cracked _jokes_ while you watched me bleed?”

“I'm sorry.” The damp was creeping a bit past his eyelashes now.

Daken let him go with a slight push and resettled himself, glaring out at the trees and shifting his glass into the left hand, so he wouldn't be tempted to reach for Drake again. “You're a sadist and you can't even admit it to yourself,” Daken murmured and took a drink. “How many closets can you fit into?”

“I'm not--”

“Yes you are.”

Drake was quiet for a while, looking down. His pulse stayed agitated. His breath stayed shaky. “I... I don't really understand why... If it was some reaction to the deathseed or something else... I just...”

“Ah, so the _deathseed_ made you do it?” Daken gave a loud scoff. “It was _inside_ of me. And have you heard _me_ use that excuse?”

“I... I'm...”

“I make you _uncomfortable_ ,” Daken said, taking pity for the sake of advancing the conversation. “I make you uncomfortable on more levels than you can name. And the animal part of your brain lashed out against that discomfort with violence... It's an age old story.”

“... Maybe,” Drake reluctantly agreed. “You scare me.”

“Oh go to _hell_. You want to _fuck_ me,” Daken snapped.

“That's--”

“You want to get your dick into me so badly you can barely keep your hands to yourself even now,” Daken sneered and picked up the whiskey bottle by his hip to refill his glass.

“You are so _full_ of yourself,” Drake puffed, offended, irritated.

“I can _smell_ you,” Daken retorted, side-eyeing him. “I can _hear_ your heart when it flutters.” He refilled his tumbler, almost to the top. Drake didn't answer to that. Embarrassed. Daken steadied the bottle against his thigh as he pushed the cork back in. “... Have you even noticed how much closer you're sitting than you were when you came up here?”

Drake started and then glanced around, taking in his position. Half the initial distance between them had vanished. He looked sharply up at Daken, a hint of anger coming back into his features. “ _Stop it_.”

“Stop _what?_ ” Daken spat.

“Stop using your _powers_ ,” Drake elaborated.

Daken tilted his head back and gave a short bark of bitter laughter. “My _god_ , listen to you and your _fucking privilege!_ ”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Not _every_ mutant is so lucky as to get powers that _turn off_ ,” Daken sneered and took a somewhat larger sip from his drink.

“B-but--”

“I can't _turn off_ my healing factor when it's burning five thousand calories a day for no good reason. I can't _turn off_ my heightened olfactory-sense when I'm walking past a dumpster. I can't _turn off_ my heightened auditory-sense when babies are screaming,” Daken listed venomously while he glared Drake down. He lifted his free hand and extended his claws quickly enough that he could see Drake flinch and hear his small, sharp intake of breath. “ _These_ aren't _gone_ when you can't see them. They're just _inside_ of me. Like _you_ want to be.”

“N-no. That's not-- I _know_ you have control of your pheromones,” he protested.

“I can also steer a _boat_ , but it's going to _float_ whether the pilot's at the helm or not,” Daken snapped.

Drake snorted. “Tell _that_ to the _Titanic_.”

Daken stared at him, dumbfounded for a second or two. An unexpected grin pulled at one corner of his mouth. “... Did you just call me the Titanic?” he asked.

“I... What?”

“Are you suggesting I go down on an--”

“ _No! Wait! No!_ ” Drake flustered, reeking of embarrassment. “ _Undo undo!_ I want to take back _all_ of the last two minutes!”

“Oh you _cannot_ take _that_ back, Snowflake. I absolutely _swear_ , I will make sure _that one_ haunts you to your _grave_ ,” Daken promised. “When you make a Freudian-slip, baby, it is an _avalanche_.”

Drake groaned and buried his face in his hands.

Daken chuckled and shook his head. “Don't sulk. You earned a solid mocking and I went easy.”

Drake lowered his hands, fingers curling inward, and eyed him uncertainly. “... Are you serious?”

“Hm?” Daken sipped his whiskey.

“You can't turn your pheromones off?”

“Neither can anybody else. Why would I be able to? Everybody's skin exudes pheromones all the time. Sometimes in higher concentrations than other times,” Daken shrugged dismissively and sighed. “In neutral gear, my levels are twenty-something times higher than a baseline human...”

“So you're just twenty-something times sexier than a normal person when you're _not_ trying,” Drake muttered, brow pinched in annoyance.

“ _Your_ words, not mine,” Daken hummed, then shook his head. “That's how your body's interpreting it. My neutral isn't specifically aphrodisia... just general-purpose appeal.” He gazed vaguely out at the treeline, black against a bruised sky. “If I stay calm, people just want to be closer to me. Their minds might rationalize that in any number of ways.”

“You weren't ' _calm_ ' a few minutes ago,” Drake pointed out.

“No, and if you'll recall, you were on edge,” Daken replied and took another sip. “But I never implied that my powers were the _only_ , or even the _primary_ , reason for your infatuation.”

Drake bristled in annoyance. “ _Fine_. You're gorgeous.”

Daken smirked and tilted his head coquettishly. “Yes, and?”

“And sooo refreshingly modest.”

“Modesty is for people who don't have anything to gloat about,” Daken said and took a sip.

A few moments elapsed in silence; Daken listened to the patter of Drake's heart pick up a renewed anxiety and heard him grind his teeth just slightly. And then he scooted closer. Daken schooled himself not to react. Drake's hand caught around the tumbler, fingers laying on top of Daken's, and he pulled the glass, Daken still very much attached to it, closer as he leaned down slightly to sip from it. It struck Daken as slightly odd that he hadn't conjured a tumbler of his own out of ice; it seemed like the sort of party-trick Drake would do. This was more deliberately flirtatious. An 'indirect kiss'.

“Don't you dare make it cold,” Daken warned. “Americans do it _wrong_.”

“Well now I want to just to spite,” Drake said. But he didn't. “That's... really good.”

“Hm,” Daken studied him for another moment in the semi-darkness and took another sip himself. “Presumptuous of you,” he noted.

“What?”

“I just told you that it's not deliberate. I'm not 'teasing you' by choice,” Daken mused, swirling the whiskey around the glass, watching the patterns of light and shadow ripple in it. “And yet you still assume that I want your attentions.”

“I...” Drake stiffened, and a pageant of emotions rolled off of him. Embarrassment. Shame. Confusion. Anxiety. “S-sorry,” he mumbled, starting to shift, to move away.

“It's all right.” Daken lowered his hand, resting it, and his glass, on Drake's knee, halting his retreat. “... You're not too bad,” he murmured. “Physically, I mean. It's a shame about the personality.”

“ _God_ , you are a roller coaster,” Drake complained, bitter annoyance sharpening his tone.

“You mean you want to ride me?”

“I want to have _any clue_ what is happening right now,” Drake sighed, radiating frustration.

“Sunset's over, so I suppose we're waiting for the stars to come out,” Daken replied with a lopsided shrug.

“We're in the middle of New York City.”

“Then I imagine we'll be waiting a very long time.”

Drake sighed, frustration still clinging to him, but mixed with resignation now. He put his hand around Daken's again, lifting the tumbler to take another sip. The gesture was even odder on repetition. Minutes drifted past in silence. It wasn't uncomfortable. Slightly weighted, but not chafing. They both took sips from the tumbler. Daken had to refill it again. Drake never tried to take it away from him, always opting for the strange parody of hand-holding instead. The entire gesture was so peculiar and contrived. It felt stranger each time.

“... You do make me uncomfortable,” Drake said after a long while and a fortifying sip. “But it's not just 'cause you're pretty.”

“I never said 'just',” Daken replied, not bothering to look at him, studying the treeline against the sky and the little lamps out in the park dotting its trails. “In fact I said the opposite. I said I made you uncomfortable on more levels than you could name.”

“... I could name a few,” Drake murmured.

Daken sipped and savored, and then rested the glass against Drake's knee again. That seemed to have become its proper home. “I'm sexy-dangerous. For you, wanting me is a taboo. Because of who I am, whose I am. Because of what I am--”

“ _What_ you are?” Drake asked in slight confusion, honing in on a buzz-word that a longtime member of the publicly-visible mutant community would be sensitive to.

“A villain.”

“Oh please. You're a lackey at best,” Drake said flippantly, and his hand caught around Daken's again, lifting the glass.

Daken resisted, keeping the glass out of his mouth's reach. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Way I hear it, your big master plan to fuck with X-Force was really Sabertooth pulling your strings,” Drake said with a shrug.

Daken glared at him. “One: Sabertooth set things up, but I was _not_ his thrall, I was _playing along_ ,” he corrected firmly. “Two: if I make a 'master plan', it is elegant, efficient and effective.”

“Really now?” Drake snorted.

“I owned Madripoor for three weeks.”

“And what happened?”

“I got _bored_ ,” Daken snapped.

“... You got bored,” Drake repeated.

“It's the _getting_ not the _having_ ,” Daken replied with a shrug, twisting the tumbler out of Drake's hand and taking a sip.

“Uhuh.”

“And Laura...” Daken trailed off.

“What?”

He shook his head. “It's... not something I could explain. She made it an empty victory... She made it all ash.” Daken closed his eyes and sighed.

Drake's hand caught around the tumbler again and Daken let him pull it in. After he'd taken his nip, he didn't let go this time. Letting their liquor-linked hands drift down to the resting place on his knee together. “What did she do?” he asked softly.

“It's nothing she did...” Daken murmured, opening his eyes to study their fingers through the glass, dark blue in the twilight. “... It's everything she does. Everything she is.”

“That's a pretty wide net.”

Daken was quiet for a few minutes, staring at their hands for a while and then out into the murk surrounding the school. “... What do you see when you look at the little time-travel boy?” he asked.

“I... I mean, me? I call him 'Baby-Bobby' because I like watching him puff his cheeks and get all offended,” Drake shrugged. “Nowhere even close to as pissed about it as Roberto used to get.”

Daken studied him while Drake sought out another sip of whiskey. “... Is he the better version of you? Is that what lurks in the back of your head? And you try to push it away, ignore it. Then you try to resent him for it. You try to tell yourself he was given things, opportunities, support, that you weren't. But you know it's not true. You know he's just stronger than you. Brighter. Better... And you can't even make yourself hate him for it.”

Drake had gone still. Silent. He didn't respond. Seconds stretched into minutes. He drew a deep breath that shuddered on the way in. “... Yes.”

Daken wet his lip and turned his eyes forward again. Staring out at ink trees and velvet sky. “... I can't hate her for being what I wish I was... I tried. I can't,” he whispered. “... I can't hate her. And I can't be her.”

They lapsed into silence again. Melancholic, but still not uncomfortable. Daken had to refill the tumbler again. He watched the level within continue to drop steadily. There was no more amber in this light. Just gray, with little highlights glinting off the glass from the park's lamps. There were no stars in the sky, because when you were in New York, there was nothing else in the universe.

“I can't tell,” Daken said softly, cutting down a silence that had grown deep roots.

“Hm?” Drake turned his head very slightly, glancing sideways at him.

“I can't tell why people want me,” Daken clarified. “I can't tell when it's real. If it ever is.”

“... Oh.”

Daken lifted the tumbler to his lips, filled his mouth and held the whiskey on his tongue for a while before swallowing. “I didn't used to think it mattered... As long as I didn't push. As long as I went somewhere people were already shopping for a meaningless hookup anyway... No harm, no foul. No point brooding.”

Drake was quiet for a few moments, mulling that over. “When did it start mattering?” he asked at last.

Daken stared out at the black trees silhouetted against deep indigo. “... When a woman told me she was in love with me. Then, a few hours later, she pointed a gun at my face and told me she was going to protect the world from me.”

“... Shit.”

“Yeah,” Daken agreed, nodding slightly.

He could hear Drake chewing on his lip for a few seconds before speaking again. “That-- I think maybe that contextualizes a few things. Not just about you. About... It contextualizes a few things I've...” he trailed off, shook his head and took a deep breath. “Did she _know_ about your powers?”

“Not the pheromones,” Daken said.

“I think-- I think that might be the most important thing,” Drake said slowly. “Like, I mean, if you can't-- If you can't _not_ smell sexy, then maybe you just have to make sure, I mean if you want someone to _like_ you, or-or if-- whatever. I think you just have to make sure they _know_. I mean. Ethically but also to-to make sure they don't want to shoot you in the face later.”

The stumbling over words was curious. Daken wasn't actually sure how much of the alcohol Drake had had. The glass probably held around three hundred milliliters, but they'd been sharing it, which made it hard go gauge how much of its consumption should be attributed to either of them. “Full disclosure is going to discourage people from shooting me in the face?” he asked. “You don't think it would make _more_ people want to save the world from me?”

“Well, I mean, maybe dickheads,” Drake said dismissively. “But, but, I mean, like, I mean people who are getting involved with you. That's something they have to know before they fuck you. It's a-- It's the 'informed' part of 'informed consent', right? Like--” His hand caught around Daken's again and he pulled the tumbler close to him. “Like I am over twenty-one, and I know what is in this glass, and I can make a grownup decision,” he said and took a deep sip.

Daken felt himself smirking. “Are you comparing me to malt liquor?” he asked.

“Mm, no,” Drake shook his head as he came up for air. “You'd be-- you'd be something with a little, pink umbrella.”

“Something fruity?”

Drake snickered.

“I think you've had too much of this,” Daken noted, passing the tumbler to his right hand and out of Drake's reach.

“Haven't even had a glass,” Drake countered, a lilt to his voice that was clearly meant to be playful.

“Because you've had _my_ glass,” Daken retorted, matching the playful tone.

“What about you?”

“I don't get drunk.”

“I mean-- I mean-- Haven't had enough of you,” Drake said, bracing a hand against the roof behind Daken so he could lean into his space, tilting his head. “What do you taste like?”

“... Right now? Expensive whiskey.”

“ _Dakeeeen_ ,” he whined.

“... You're over-served, Snowflake,” Daken said softly.

“Kiss, please?” Drake asked plaintively.

Daken debated for a moment as he set the glass down. Right choices. Wrong choices. Wrong but largely harmless choices. He leaned in and kissed Drake, who hummed happily against Daken's lips and opened his mouth. Sloppy. Clumsy. Drunk. Daken took control of the kiss and kept it slow and sweet. Drake shifted, turning his near leg sideways, bent at the knee to support his obliquely leaning weight, so that he could free up his hand to put it, and the other, on Daken. The right landed low on his ribs, the left against his belly. They both migrated aimlessly, but pressed firmly against him. Daken wrapped an arm loosely around Drake and, with the opposing hand, carded gently at his hair.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before Drake started trying to pull his shirt up. “Hey,” Daken called softly, breaking the kiss.

“Hm?”

“You're drunk,” Daken told him.

“Yeah?” Drake agreed, like he couldn't identify the statement's relevance.

“You're drunk,” Daken repeated. “This is a bad idea.”

Drake made a small noise in the back of his throat and Daken could smell his frustration. “'s not beer-goggles. You said yourself. I already wanted you,” he protested.

“The roof,” Daken replied.

“The-- the roof?”

“You're too drunk to be on the roof. You're going to break your neck,” he explained.

“Oh. Okay,” Drake nodded. “I can-- I can make a slide--”

“Nonononono,” Daken cut him off, chuckling. “No drunk-sliding. Remember the breaking your neck part?”

“Right,” Drake said and started trying to push himself up before sitting back down quickly. “I think-- I think ice-slide would be safer.”

“I respectfully disagree,” Daken said, pulling off his shoes and socks, setting them aside next to the whiskey and mostly empty glass. Then he caught Drake's wrist and pulled his arm around his shoulders. “Come here,” he said, pulling Drake against him and hoisting him semi-vertical.

“ _Oh shit oh shit oh shit!_ ” Drake swore as Daken half led, half carried him down to the edge of the roof.

“Wait. Sit here,” Daken instructed, lowering him down to sit on the edge. “Wait there just a moment.” He let Drake go and climbed down to his windowsill, ducking in momentarily to find a good way to brace with his legs, before leaning back and holding up his arms. “Okay, give me your hand.”

“This is _such_ a bad idea,” Drake said, taking his left hand.

“Better than staying on the roof all night.”

“There wasn't rain in the forecast.”

“Trust me. I'm a professional,” Daken replied with a grin.

“You're a professional _assassin!_ ” Drake protested.

“And how much climbing around on rooftops do you think that entails?” Daken countered as he grabbed one of Drake's feet and moved it. “Okay, now ease forward a bit, there's a brace point just below here.”

“ _Oh shit oh shit oh shit!_ ” Drake returned to his mantra as, with much squirming and squeaking, Daken managed to get him to a point he could drag Drake in through the window. They ended up sprawled on the floor and Drake rounded out a few more curses as he clung, fingers dug into Daken so hard they probably would have left bruises if he were anybody else. “Oh _God_ , never do that again!”

“Shhh. It's okay, Snowflake,” Daken murmured, not bothering to hide his chuckle as he pet Drake's hair soothingly. “It's over now.” He leaned down and kissed him softly. Drake settled quickly and returned the kiss for a while before Daken drew back. “Now that I've rescued you, I need to go rescue my drink,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

“O-okay,” Drake mumbled as Daken got to his feet and then climbed back out the window.

Just a moment after he'd gotten his head above the lip of the roof, he saw a puff of smoke and a small silhouette appeared next to the whiskey bottle at the top of the slope. “Hey! No!” Daken called harshly. He could see the damned little gargoyle turn to look at him. The next moment it had snatched up both the bottle and the glass. “ _You mother-fucker!_ ” Daken shouted, scrambling up onto the roof, but the little devil was already gone. Daken muttered a few more curses under his breath as he climbed up to the flatter space to retrieve his shoes before making his way back down and into the dorm.

“What happened?” Drake asked, looking up at him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and had taken off his button-down shirt.

“Bamf stole my four-hundred dollar whiskey,” Daken said.

“... That was four-hundred dollars?” Drake asked, eyes widening slightly. “Damn. No wonder it was good.”

“So, you're making yourself right at home,” Daken noted. Doubt flickered over Drake's features for a moment before Daken turned away and started toward the en suite. “Don't let me stop you,” he called, stepping inside and pulling the door shut. He paused for a moment, rubbing his hands over his face and then sighing and dropping them to the counter, bracing against them as he stared into the mirror for a moment. He closed his eyes and sighed again, shaking his head, and got about his business. He might not get drunk, but he had still imbibed a significant quantity of fluid.

After washing up, he grabbed the acrylic cup sitting neatly on the vanity and filled it from the tap, before making his way back out into the bedroom. Casualties had been made of Drake's pants and shoes while Daken was occupied, leaving him in his undershirt, short-sleeves and v-neck, and patterned boxers. “While the jury's out on exactly how much you drank, it was probably enough that you might want to make use of the lavatory before you get too settled?” he suggested, nodding back toward the door.

“Oh. Yeah. That's-- That's a good idea,” Drake agreed, nodding and pushing himself awkwardly to his feet.

As he stumbled past, Daken wandered over to the small desk and set the cup down, then pulled off his t-shirt and designer jeans, draping them over the chair. He debated a moment and then sighed in mild irritation, deciding to leave his boxer-briefs on, and went to pull the bed covers back. The door opened again and Drake emerged. He paused two steps into the room and stared. Daken turned to raise an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

“You are so pretty,” Drake whispered.

“I know,” Daken replied with a smirk and gestured vaguely at the bed as he went to get the cup off the desk. “Have a seat.”

Drake did as he was told and then gave the cup a confused look when Daken held it in front of him. “What's this?” he asked, glancing up at him.

“It's water. Drink it,” Daken said.

“Why?” Drake asked, taking the cup.

“Because you're drunk and it is my understanding that the worst part of a hangover is caused by dehydration,” Daken answered and climbed onto the bed, crawling across to the other side.

“Oh,” Drake said, nodding. He obediently drank the water, then set it on the night stand and turned Daken. “You--”

“Turn off the light,” Daken said, pointing.

Drake glanced at the lamp and then back at him, looking reluctant. “Can't-- Can't we keep it on? I want to look at you.”

“No. Off,” Daken said firmly and waited, staring evenly back at him. Drake sighed in deep disappointment and reached out, switching the lamp off. “Good,” Daken murmured and stretched an arm across Drake's chest, catching his shoulder on the far side and pulling him back. “Now lay down, Snowflake.”

“Here?” Drake whispered, dropping back into the pillow and swinging his legs up onto the bed.

“Perfect,” Daken agreed, pulling the covers up over them and settling against Drake's side as he focused his pheromones on relaxation and contentment, pushing the intensity up a few notches. He nuzzled up and placed a soft kiss against Drake's neck before letting his head drop against the same pillow and letting out a small sigh.

“... Wait...”

“We can play Titanic tomorrow, if you still want to be king of my world then,” Daken murmured, petting his shoulder. “And if you promise not to shoot me in the face, I promise to swallow.”

“That's-- Okay, fine... But I'm pretty sure you tricked me... Into not-sex,” Drake complained.

“Shhh... Go to sleep,” Daken whispered.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I got artsy with my punctuation. I'm usually pretty proper with my grammar (trained English teacher, hello), but I started thinking of Daken's maudlin dialogue as having a lot of emphasis-pauses, and then decided to bleed that into the narrative to reflect the way he's thinking.
> 
> I've had this scene in my head for months now, but was reluctant to write it because I didn't want to start another long fic while I've still got ongoing long fics on my plate and all that. Only, see, the only reason I was thinking it needed to be part of a long fic is to build the infrastructure to frame it and explain _why_ Daken is at the school. But y'know, there are already a handful of authors who have written up reasons and stories to get Daken on campus, so go on and pick your favorite, I'm not going to rehash right now, I just wanted to write this little rooftop dark-cute.
> 
> I made this entirely independent from Shallot because I want to try a different direction there, and also because this is rather longer than a drabble. Sorry to any readers who are as disappointed by this cock-tease as Bobby.


End file.
